Broken Trust
by skybound2
Summary: The night that Shepard stops Garrus from getting the revenge he craves, trust is broken. Spoilers for Garrus' loyalty mission. Warnings: This piece contains NON-CON sexual situations, and as such may be triggering for some. Written for a masskink prompt.


**Title:** Broken Trust  
**Author:** skybound2  
**Rating:** M (NSFW)  
**Characters**: Garrus/F!Shep  
**Word Count**: ~3000  
**Warnings: **This piece contains **NON-CON**, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bare that in mind.  
**Summary: **The night that Shepard stops Garrus from getting the revenge he craves, trust is broken.  
**Spoilers:** Just for Garrus' loyalty mission really.  
**Author's Note**: This was written in response to a prompt over at **masskink** which requested non-con between Garrus and F!Shep. I did my best to keep the characters as IC as possible given the OOC nature of the piece. So hopefully that shows. My sincere apologies for what I do to the characters within. And yes, the final two lines of the piece are cribbed straight from the game. All hail Bioware.

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**Broken Trust**

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She's gunned down everyone that's gotten in her way. Shown him just how justice should be delivered so many times over, that when he asks – nearly pleads – for her help with Sidonis, he never expects that she would do anything but smile and tell him "nice shot" like she has so often in the past.

But no, not this time. This time she argues with him. Looks at him like she has never quite seen him before, and he thinks that he must have looked at her the same. Who the hell could this person be? Trying to convince him to 'let it go' – to let _him_ go. She's never let anything go before in her life.

He has the shot all lined up, and that...that _coward_ isn't even trying to justify his actions. He's just...accepting it. Like he understands, like he can fathom the consequences of his actions. Like he has the capacity to _feel_ for the lives he has ruined. And Shepard – Shepard is standing directly in his scope. Betraying him with her words and actions, just like Sidonis.

It's happening to him all over again.

His talon hovers over the trigger, flirting with the possibility of squeezing off not just one round, but two. The rage coiling inside of him cries out for release. Whispering assurances that this, _this_ is what they deserve. Traitors. The both of them.

Then her voice breaks through to him on the comm, and he falters. His words rough when he gives the go ahead to let the bastard off without even a slap on the wrist. He watches a few seconds more as the traitor scuttles off, thanking Shepard as he goes, and feels his left mandible twitch in agitation.

He stows his rifle along his back, turns off his comm, and heads away from them. Right now, the need to hurt something, _kill_ something is nearly too strong to resist, and he simply doesn't trust himself enough to go anywhere near Shepard or the Normandy.

He makes it to a closed off back alley in the Wards, cursing himself for having such bad luck as to have wandered into a dead end – his mind obviously not all there at the moment – when Shepard appears; absent of the Thane-shaped shadow she has acquired as of late.

Her face is open, and full of concern, the emotions easily readable as always. "Garrus – can we talk?"

"Now's really not a good time, Shepard." He shoulders past her – not missing the surprised, and somewhat hurt look upon her face – and heads in the direction of the lower wards. For whatever reason, she lets him go. And absurdly, it angers him. He wants to rail at her, scream, and tear and leave her an open sore like she has left him, but she denies him that, and instead simply hovers in the alleyway, arms at her sides.

He could really use a drink.

~~~~\/~~~~

He ends up at a bar that ranks on the seediness scale somewhere in between Chora's Den and Afterlife; and that manages to lack the ambiance of either. But, it is tucked away in the forgotten dregs of the Citadel, and the alcohol is relatively cheap. Aside from Zaeed, he can't fathom that anyone else on the Normandy would even know this place exists.

And that makes it perfect for his purposes.

He's downed three-quarters of a bottle of knock-off Palaven whiskey (it burns bitterly going down, but it's strong; and the buzzing sensation it leaves in its wake is more than worth it), when he finally bothers to give the asari that's been eyeing him up at the end of the bar a passing glance. She smiles, slow; and in what he supposes is meant to be a seductive manner (he's spent enough time around both her kind and humans to have picked up on those sorts of cues) and makes her way over towards him. He allows himself a moment to linger on her curves as she virtually sashays over to his side.

It's not what he's into, typically. Never been one to veer outside the lines. But, nothing about this night has gone the way he had planned, and even the alcohol has done little to ease the tension that has wrapped itself around him like a noose. It's been long enough since he's been with a woman that he thinks maybe it's just what he needs. A tension breaker. With a very distinct lack of turian females in the near vicinity, an asari is probably the best choice.

It takes very little talking to get him following her into one of the rooms at the back of the place, and even less before she is settling herself across his lap, his armor partially removed – by hands all too familiar with the intricacies of turian design – and her fingers are running tantalizing across his fringe.

For a moment through his alcohol-fogged mind, her skin is a milky white, and her eyes a piercing green. He growls low in his throat as he shakes the image off, and once again she is an intriguing shade of dark blue. He grabs her by the hips and leans in to run his rough tongue over the skin of her neck. She arches into him at the contact, a giggle in her throat.

He hates the sound of it, and his previously over-heated blood begins to cool.

She has pulled back slightly, and is dancing her fingertips across his scarred cheek, and up to his temples when she is abruptly removed from his person – tossed to the side with an indignant yelp.

"Get your clothes, and get out of here."

Shepard's voice is laced with disgust as she stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, and waits for the asari to fumble her way out the door. Her eyes darting nervously to the hand cannon clutched in the Commander's hand. The sight is oddly out of place considering the fact that Shepard has donned civilian clothes since he last saw her, but it does the trick and within a few moments they are alone in the small room.

She stares at him balefully for a few moments, before she tosses her hands out to her sides and takes a step forward. He feels his blood start to pump harder through his body once more, the sensation invigorating. "What the hell are you doing here, Garrus?"

His mandibles twitch in amusement. He is still angry with her. The emotion rolling around in his stomach like acid. But now he is also annoyed and still somewhat inebriated, so he feels no shame when he gestures to himself, drawing attention to his mostly unclothed state. "I'd think that would be obvious, Shepard."

Her eyes flick down, glancing over the exposed skin of his chest, and lingering overly long around his waist, before they fly back up. Her cheeks flushing an enticing pink.

"Cut the crap, Garrus. That's not what I mean, and you know it." She's frustrated, and it makes her body tense. And in her civilian clothes he can't help but to notice all of the sleek lines and curves that make up her form, not so dissimilar to the asari that was so unceremoniously ejected from the room moments before.

He tilts his head at her, the anger starting to mutate into something else as her hackles rise while she waits for an answer. Heat starts to suffuse his body, and the physical evidence of his arousal that had been waning even before Shepard made her appearance, begins to resurface. He draws the words out, to what purpose, he is not yet sure. "Sorry, Shepard. But I don't think I owe you any explanation. We both know the Normandy isn't going anywhere for several hours. What I do with my down time really isn't your business."

She breaths out, her shoulders slumping as she tosses the gun onto a nearby end table and leans against the wall. He watches, fascinated, as her hand reaches up to run through the short hair adorning her head. His body tightens unexpectedly at the sight. He's not certain if his reactions have nothing or everything to do with her, primed as he has been for much of the night. In need of any kind of release. "It's just...this isn't like you, Garrus."

Those words, those damnable oft-repeated words snap his control, and he launches himself out of the chair, and across the small space – pinning her against the wall with proximity alone. His body held off from hers by both of his hands braced on either side of her shoulders. "Every time you say that, you just prove how little you know me, _Commander_." His voice is a low rumble, backed with the slow-burning rage he is feeling.

She doesn't tremble or flinch. He wouldn't have expected her to, anyone else would – but no one else would be in this position. Instead she presses her body flush against the wall, moving away from him, and meets his stare dead on. "Who are you trying to fool, Garrus? You or me? Because, from where I'm standing you're doing a piss-poor job."

He hates her in that moment. Hates her for stopping him from shooting Harkin. Hates her for talking him out of killing Sidonis. Hates her for having taught him one way of living – of getting justice – before she died, and trying to rewrite all those lessons now. She's a different person then she use to be. But then again, so is he.

He considers her words for another moment then reaches out to stroke one lone talon down her cheek, across her scars and along her throat, exposed as it is by the low-collar of her civvies. "Perhaps you just don't know me all that well anymore. You were gone a long time, Shepard." He swirls his talon along the indent of her clavicle, and his mandibles flair out as he catches a change in her scent – a dash of fear mixed with something else, something less familiar to him. He enjoys the sound of her breath hitching in her throat. In the quiet recesses of his mind he knows that were he entirely sober, he wouldn't think of doing these things, but those thoughts are far too subdued at the moment to give him any pause.

He watches in fascination as his hand trails over her shoulder, down her arm, and across her waist before tugging at the cloth of her hip. At some point, he honestly isn't sure when, his body has melded against hers, trapping her rather effectively against the wall for the moment. One of her hands comes up to grasp him at the elbow of the arm still braced against the wall, and the other lifts to his shoulder – her fingers splayed wide. The position is defensive – indicating that she could push him off at any moment if she so chose. But as yet, she hasn't.

Strange how before this night he had never really given any thought to inter-species intercourse, and now in the span of an hour he has given considerable thought to his compatibility with not one, but two different species.

She's speaking again, and it draws his attention from his hand at her hip back up to her face to focus on her mouth. He sees her soft tongue – so unlike his own – dart out to moisten her lips. He has no idea what she is saying, so loud is the sound of blood rushing in his ears, so he chooses to ignore her completely, and instead leans more fully into her. He clenches the talon at her hip, feeling it start to bite into her skin; he presses his face into her throat, and inhales deeply. He is rewarded by the sudden snap of her jaw as she shuts up.

He hauls her into him, her arms loosening from their previous positions to scramble at his shoulders, his neck. She is naturally colder than him, and the touch of her hands on his unclothed scales leaves a delightfully chilled sensation in their wake. His own hands delve beneath her jacket and shirt to stroke the oh-so-soft skin of her abdomen. At this first explorative touch of his, she gasps, and presses into him, her soft lips and delicate tongue playing with the unscarred side of his face.

"Garrus..." His name is a breathy moan, and it makes him furious. He wants nothing to do with sweetness, not tonight. Not when she denied him the satisfaction of the death Sidonis so richly deserved. He doesn't care how sick it is, but he wants to punish her for that. A growl forms in his throat, and he starts to claw at her clothing, not caring that he is ripping it in his eagerness to get to the skin beneath. He makes no effort to be gentle. The clothing nearly falls away as a result. She doesn't seem to mind, pulling him closer with her legs and arms and lips.

The skin at her throat is warm against his face; he can feel the blood pumping erratically there, and instinct tells him to bite down, so he does. Her body goes stock still, and he dimly registers the hands that had been pulling him closer suddenly balling into fists. But he doesn't give a damn. His fingers clench into her sides once more, digging in deeply this time, and she shouts out something, but he doesn't really hear it. He is a ball of conflicting emotions: rage and lust and need. All melting together until he is unable to think of anything else, but getting to more of her. Nothing else even comes close to registering.

He twists them away from the wall, not entirely sure of where he planned for them to go, and the sudden movement jars them, sends them sprawling to the floor. She lands with a thump, and he revels in the warm rush of air that coasts over him on impact. The look on her face is dazed, and the little voice at the back of his head starts to get louder, yelling at him to stop and reassess the situation – suggesting that she might have hit her head harder than was safe. But he tunes it out, and instead he opts to flip her over – situating her in a position more familiar to him.

She starts to struggle against his weight on top of her, but the friction it causes against his arousal only serves to drive him forward. The thrumming in his body reaches a fever pitch, and he presses her down – her face pushed against the rough carpet beneath them. One taloned hand is centered in the middle of her back, leaving welts in her soft skin, while the other fumbles between her legs, adjusting and maneuvering – before finally he slides within her wet heat. Her body tries to jerk away from his touch, but he is too far gone to notice.

And oh – he has never felt something quite like this! She is soft and pliable where turian females are harsh and unforgiving. Every stroke within her seems to be magnified, and he quickly loses himself. Each thrust harsher than the one before; her whimpers and cries and bucking escalating his arousal all the more.

As wound up as he is, he is unsurprised that he doesn't last long, and he finishes with a roar against the back of her neck. He feels vaguely as if he has just been through a black hole, every sensation enhanced momentarily before he nearly passes out from it all. The over-active emotions that had been spurring him on finally retreat, and he breathes a sigh of relief; glad to be rid of them. He slumps over her, laying full length against her back. Several seconds go by before he realizes she is trying to dislodge him, none-too-gently, and he rolls off and to the side; eyes half closed.

When he recovers enough to open them fully, he looks up, and sees her scrambling for her clothing in a fashion somewhat reminiscent of the asari from earlier. He is about to say something to that effect when he notices the bloody trails running from her neck and hips, and leading down her chest and thighs. There is a large bruise forming on the side of her face as well.

The dark feeling in the pit of his stomach returns, and quickly he pushes himself up onto his elbows, "Shepard...?"

With a snarl, she turns to him, her fist flying out in a wide arc, and knocks him **hard** across the scarred side of his face. The impact sends him back to the ground.

It takes him a few moments, and when he lifts his head she is nearly fully dressed once more. Blood seeps through the cuts in her tattered clothing, and the hand cannon has been retrieved from where she tossed it so long ago.

He starts to move towards her again, but she angles the gun at him, the nozzle a scant meter away from his forehead, and he freezes. Her voice is brittle, "Stay away from me, Vakarian." She tugs at the torn collar of her coat, before reaching behind her to open the door. Her eyes never leave his as she backs out of the room, and slams the door in her wake.

All the life drains out of him as he stares at the exit, his head filled with swirling hateful thoughts. Only this time, they are all directed at him.

_"What would you do if someone betrayed you?"_

_"I'm not sure, but I wouldn't let it change me."_

~End

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**End Note: **I know that some readers have been curious as to whether or not there was any follow up/continuation of this fic anywhere, and the answer is 'YES, there is!' The sequel/follow up to this fic is titled "Cracked Faith" and can be found via my profile page. Once again, thank you all for reading.


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